I apologise for interrupting your festive period with further correspondence. Many promises and half truths were cast around during the lengthy legal process your seemed so keen on embarking on but you can rest assured it will take more than a few rulings from pile of wrinkled skin in a wig to deter Barnaby Fudge's intentions. So it is with a heavy heart that I tell you another rumour has made its wicked way into my waxy noise vents along the canals of your watery loins.
As you are no doubt aware, your courting of other gentlemen has been widely reported in the gutter press and lengthily addressed in my previous letters. Too many hastily drilled glory holes have born witness to a lady of grace slowly transforming into a soiled, digital pin cushion. I have made my position clear on the subject. Many times. Still you persist with your filth. It would appear nothing can satisfy your gargantuan libido. How much junk can you cram into your tiny frame? So now I come to understand one of your more eager suitors has begun casting dispersions concerning the New Year; the celebrated drain day where one annum reluctantly passes its mucus coated baton to the sweaty hand of the next. Apparently every time he leaves the house he expects some kind of fun. Every day is a potential party. What surprises will await him on the other side of his, no doubt, hefty front door? Thus, New Year being no exception, get ready for some serious fun ladies and gents. People who dislike the event should be ashamed of themselves. We should all stop complaining and get on with it.
Well, Mr. Argos, I beg to differ. Having followed his naive and hasty advice over the past few days I have been only met with disgust and shame. I descended on New Year and the days which followed with a demonic fervor. A whirlwind of urine, alcohol and spittle tearing through the alleys and shopping centres of this quiet back water. Groping every behind that presented itself, inserting myself into every available crevice. Housewives covered their infant's eyes and ears, shielding their fragile skin from the maelstrom of bodily fluids and fortified wine struggling to free itself from the back garden washing line, their grandmother's underwear discarded amongst the rhododendrons. The result was a wake of police complaints and unreported assaults not seen since the Lesley glory days. I continued in this manner until the evening just past when both my funds and body collapsed under the intense stress invoked by this booze ridden, sexual haze only to be severely beaten by the mob which had by now collected on my vomit soaked doorstep.
New Year cynicism is there for an essential reason, to deter enjoyment, to discourage the most debauched among us from attending events where children and alcohol are freely available. Give the moderates a chance to shine. They know their limits and the public are only too happy to forgive and forget a few misguided advances and ill advised remarks to the office superior. We, on the other hand, cannot be permitted to behave unchecked, our desires and true natures must not be shown even a glimmer of light. Who knows how far we would go if every day was met with a justifiable appetite for drug fueled predation. Keep the cynicism alive! New Year is not for us. Unbridled enthusiasm is something that must be buried at all costs.
yours with a suspended sentence
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